The Adversary
by Wanton Massacre
Summary: The world is destroyed. Infected roam the world unchallenged. The few scattered survivors huddle in fear and pray for salvation. One man, however, is different. Driven by unseen forces, he makes his way across the country, turning predators into prey.
1. Chapter 1: They Are Getting Stronger

Disclaimer: This story is not my property. In no sense or fashion am I attempting to make a profit from this endeavor. All characters, except the ones that I have created, are property of their respective owners.

Author's Notes: A story about a shell of a man, a man without a past, trying to find a reason for his existence in this new, dangerous world. I hope you enjoy it. And if you're looking for Robert Neville, don't worry. He will be here eventually.

* * *

_"Livingston. Time to wake up. Time to continue east. East until the sea. Until you can see the lights of the big city. Until you see the broken bridge."_

**Prologue**

A pair of blue eyes opened and stared at the roof of the large truck. He had gotten used to sleeping in his car. After the virus hit, it was foolish to stay in one spot. So, he kept on the move. Sleeping in the day, and driving at night.

It was better to drive at night. The infected were fast, but they weren't fast enough to catch up. There hadn't been many infected on the highways anyway. They were mostly concentrated in cities.

He stood up, ignoring the dull ache in his back which came from sleeping in the back seat of the truck. It was a large military vehicle, known as a HUMVEE. Officially, it was called a M1114, but he only knew that because he had read the manual.

He liked it. It didn't get very good gas, but it was fast, powerful, and, most importantly, tough. Of course, there was the large machine gun on the top of it. That certainly helped. The HUMVEE had been a part of a army convoy, dedicated to ushering out survivors, but now it belonged to him.

He couldn't quite remember when he had acquired the camouflaged vehicle, but the days had pretty much blended together, so he didn't think that was much cause of worry. It couldn't have been very long ago, because there were still a multitude of military rations (he didn't care for the taste, but they did their job), and dozens of military weaponry.

He looked down at his wrinkled and battered uniform. He had worn it for a very long time. He couldn't force himself to get rid of it, no matter its condition. It was his last remnant of his forgotten past. His memory of his life before the infection was absent, totally and completely.

He didn't know why, but he figured he must've suffered a rather nasty bump on his head. That was why he was thankful for the uniform. It gave him an identity. Without it, he would have just been some nameless man with a lot of military equipment. With it, he was Lt. Livingston of the Marines. He didn't have a first name, but that suited him just fine.

He had created a nice little background during his lonely trek across the country. He had found someone's notes, apparently someone in the unit had kept a journal, and he expanded on that. He had been part of a unit sent to Los Angeles to protect a small, protected society for survivors.

They had done well, at the start. But somehow, the infection had gotten through the barriers. The author's memoirs became frantic, and he wrote constantly about the folly of man. His last entry described a final assault, in an attempt to stave off the infected. After that, there was nothing more.

Was the journal his? He didn't know. He kept it close to himself at all times, because it was very important to him, far more important than guns or rounds. Because the journal was a link to the rest of humanity, just like his uniform was a link to himself.

For a little over two years, Livingston had been staying near the desert, mostly in Arizona and Nevada. However, recently, he had been inching his way across the country. He had no clear destination in mind, not really, so he just kept going east. He was in Kansas now, he had traveled over three states in two months. Gas was not a problem. He had learned to siphon gas out of stations. He dedicated one day every two weeks to gathering as much gas as possible.

He stepped out of the HUMVEE, and looked up at the sky. The sun was almost at the horizon. It wouldn't be long. However, he doubted there would be any problem with the infected. This was desert, the last bit of it before the grasslands. There was no place for them to hide from the sun. He realized that this was probably the safest place he would ever find, but something was calling him east. He couldn't explain it, but he had learned it was pointless to fight.

He pulled out his M4 carbine, just to be safe. He had slept with it, he had always slept with it. It was a smart thing to do. The carbine was one of many weapons, but he liked this one the best. It had a large nightvision scope on it.

Sometimes, when the dull monotony of driving through the state of became too much for him, he would venture into cities. He liked to believe that he was searching for survivors, but that wasn't the real reason. He hadn't seen another person since the day he woke up without any memory of his former life. No, the real reason he would turn off the safe highways and into cities, like Wichita, was to hunt for the infected.

It was something that he felt he had to do. Just like going east, he felt that if he didn't do it, he was breaking some sort of strange code. Wichita had been his most recent. He had spent five days in that wasteland, and destroyed six hives of infected. He was dimly aware that half of the town was now in flames because of his extermination attempt, but his satisfaction with his job did not waver.

After all, they had destroyed the world, didn't they? Six billion people used to be on this planet. Was it so bad to destroy a city to wipe out a few hundred of them? The city was in ruins anyway.

It hadn't been very difficult, not really. Wichita was his twentieth city, and he had boiled it down to an exact science. He had used very little ammunition, and there had been no problems with food, since he restocked in the city anyway.

All it took was a trip to the hardware store, a couple of household chemicals, some fertilizer, a couple cans of gasoline, and a detonator. He had plenty of those. The HUMVEE was littered with blasting caps and all sort of demolitions. He had some C4, but he was saving that.

After making his bombs, you'd figure the hard part would be finding the hives. They covered their tracks well, and he was unfamiliar with the city. However, he seem to stumble on to them without difficulty. He wasn't sure why, but he figured that he had been blessed with a sort of sixth sense. Or maybe he was just lucky.

The how didn't matter, and for that matter, the why didn't really matter either. All that mattered was infected were dead, he was happy with himself, and he was that much closer to the opposite end of the country.

His next stop would be Topeka. It was a few hours away, but he didn't mind. Even if it got boring, he never stopped enjoying driving on the roads. Except, of course, when there was traffic. Lucky for him, the HUMVEE had off-road capabilities.

"Time to leave," he said to the last reaches of the desert. It wasn't much desert, just a few small pockets of sand between large fields of grasslands.

He wondered if he was lonely. He couldn't be quite sure. After all, he had no memories of interacting with other humans. That made it hard to miss it, right? Still, it would be a lot of fun to just have someone to talk to, instead of being forced to personify his favorite weapon. Was it crazy for him to talk to a gun? Was he crazy? Again, he had nothing to compare himself with, except the infected, of course.

"You ready, Elaine?" asked Livingston. Elaine was a woman's name in the journal. Livingston figured the author liked her, he certainly talked about her enough.

Elaine said nothing, of course, but he could imagine the weapon telling him that she was indeed ready to leave. Her voice would be both sexy and intelligent at the same time. He wasn't quite sure where had heard the voice before, but he just knew that he liked it.

He opened the front door and hopped into the seat. Ahead of him was nothing but open road. It was beautiful in a calm, peaceful sort of way. The setting sun was casting a nice, reddish haze across the darkening sky. Livingston found it strange that something so beautiful could mean something so dangerous.

The sun was setting. The infected were coming out of their hives and they were looking to hunt. Livingston did not know if there were any other survivors, but if there were, he wished them all the luck in the world. He didn't feel quite right praying for them. After all, what sort of God would condemn his children to such a fate?

* * *

**THE ADVERSARY **

**Chapter 1: They Are Getting Stronger**

* * *

Livingston had hoped that would be no traffic coming out of the capital, but there had been. It wasn't that bad, nothing compared to LA, but he was forced to slowly creep through the city. He couldn't risk going fast, because, even with the sheer size and weight of the HUMVEE, he didn't want to crash into anything. 

He had installed a circle of UV lights around the vehicle. The infected were smart enough to attack from different angles, after they acknowledge the headlights. Livingston wondered, not for the first time, just how intelligent they were.

And so, the HUMVEE slowly made its way through the city, casting a circle of light around it. Livingston knew that he had probably garnered the attention of a few infected, but they were probably weak and low in number. Topeka was nowhere near as large as Wichita, and that city didn't have that many infected. Wichita had been nothing, compared to the cities in California.

The first night was all about scouting. He would find a parking deck, somewhere high, and he would look over the entire town. The infected liked to hide in large, empty buildings. The bigger they were, the more infected they could squeeze inside. He idly wondered if there was any interaction between the infected. He hadn't seen any, aside from their united effort to kill and eat him.

He was in the middle of the city now, and he was forced to weave the large vehicle between abandoned cars. He could see the blue top of the dilapidated capitol building. Looking at that forgotten building, he felt a nearly painful feeling of sadness and regret. He couldn't remember the world before, but he liked to believe that it had been a merry and happy place. A place filled with people, a place without fear. And now, the entire world was just a graveyard, filled with dangerous ghouls and ghosts.

He stopped, idling his engine, and just looked at that blue top. In the darkness of the night, it was only noticeable because the reflection of the moon on its surface. The moon was full, but that was no comfort. Moonlight did not harm the infected.

There was a crashing noise, somewhere outside his circle of light. Livingston picked up Elaine, and looked through her nightvision scope.

"You see anything, Elaine?" he asked. His voice reverberated through the vehicle's small compartment.

The nightvision scope was his favorite and most treasured tool. His HUMVEE was his home, but the nightvision scope was his ticket to safety. It had never lied to him, and it had always shown him the dangers. He wondered if Elaine loved it as much as he did. He was sure she did, after all, it was part of her.

The world, through the scope, was a world of green. He could see the road, the cars, and even a phone booth that had been knocked on its side. It wasn't in the sharpest detail, but that was nothing new.

He continued to look outside the windshield, looking for signs of infected. They were always easy to see. In nightvision, their strange eyes seemed to glow with a sickly light. Livingston was not afraid of the infected, but he had always felt a tremor of unease when he looked at those eyes.

There was a noise coming from his right, and Livingston peered out from his driver's side window. At first, there was nothing. Then, he saw the outline of a body. And then, the eyes. Those unholy eyes. Livingston had barely recognized the infected when it entered his ring of light.

It was bald, like all the others. It was dressed in tatters, like all the others. However, this was different. Even as the light ate away at it, it kept on charging.

"What the --." He couldn't finish the sentence, because the infected ran into the HUMVEE with all the strength it could muster. Livingston could feel the vehicle rock on its frame. He was astounded. This was behavior that he had never seen before. If he had been in a regular car, without armor, the door probably would have caved in.

The infected was snarling, drooling, screaming. Bashing against the reinforced window with all its strength, even as the light ate away at its skin. Livingston could see the stark white of the creature's skull. He locked eyes with the creature and it paused, staring at him. It continued to do so, uncaring of its disintegrating body, for a few seconds. All of a sudden, it screamed at him, widening its jaw to an impossible size. The scream went on for several seconds, until the light finished its job. The infected was just ashes now, but the job had been done.

"Shit," he cursed. Livingston recognized that call. It was the call of food. This infected, some sort of strange scout, was alerting others to his presence. And he had no delusions. They would be coming, and they could be as dangerously suicidal as this one.

"Elaine, we've got trouble," he said. She shook in his hands, and he interpreted that a sarcastic confirmation. He had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Even in this time of crisis, she still couldn't help herself.

He gunned the HUMVEE and barreled forward, crashing straight into a small car. The sheer power of the HUMVEE, coupled with its size and huge bumper guard, nearly destroyed the small car. Livingston shook in his seat as the vehicle rolled over the remains of the car.

He continued to drive, looking for somewhere to hide. He looked absently at the interior clock. It was 4:33 AM. He breathed a little easier at that. Sunlight was under an hour away. He would survive this, he had survived through worse.

He turned a sharp corner, and nearly fishtailed, but he was able to control it and continue. An infected jumped in front of his vehicle, and he ran it down. It promptly exploded. Blood and gore splattered on his windshield.

"Shit!" cursed Livingston as he pushed down on the brakes as hard as he could. The vehicle lurched to a stop, and he flew forwards, stopping only when the seatbelt cut into his shoulder.

Up ahead was an upturned tanker truck, blocking the road. The black underbelly had rendered it nearly invisible. That wasn't the worse part, however. Nearly thirty infected were standing on it, staring at him. For a brief second, they did nothing, just stared at him. Livingston's hasty breaths sounded extremely loud in the momentary stillness.

The second passed, and many of the infected jumped off the tanker and hurried towards him. He switched it over to reverse and backed away. He felt the impact of an infected crashing into the rear of the HUMVEE. He turned the steering wheel sharply to the left, and gunned it.

However, several infected jumped onto his hood, blocking his view. This was crazy! They were just ignoring the pain. The lights were eating away at them and they didn't care. A part of Livingston saw that most of the infected were staying away from the lights, and only a small percentage were attacking him. What the hell was going on? Did the infected have some sort of upper class, stronger-than-usual ones?

Livingston didn't ponder this for long, and he put the HUMVEE back in reverse. The large vehicle shook mightily as he ran over what must have been several infected. He gunned the vehicle again, and pressed the brake after getting to a high speed. The momentum flung off most of the infected, and he continued without the visual hindrance.

However, not all of them had been flung off. Livingston heard a few of them holding on to the roof, and probably the large machine gun as well. He could see one of their heads, staring at him upside-down at the top of the windshield. It was a woman, and she was repeatedly crashing her head into the reinforced glass. The glass held up, but the woman's skull was crushed.

One of the lights on the right side of the HUMVEE went out, and an infected fell of the HUMVEE. Livingston was in awe at that. Did that infected just destroy the light by ramming its face into it? It was incredible, but it also should have been impossible.

"Elaine, what the fuck is going on?"

No one answered his question. He felt a tremor of an unfamiliar emotion. It was a mixture of several; sadness, despair, anger, frustration. Was this loneliness? An insane thought to be thinking at this time, but it forced itself to the front of his mind anyway.

Livingston slammed on the brakes again, and this time, the remaining infected flew off the top of the HUMVEE. They landed ahead of him, and he didn't hesitate. He pressed down on the gas and ran them over too. More blood splattered across his hood and windshield. Livingston saw the head of the woman explode like a overripe fruit.

He looked in the rear-view mirror. They were hard to see, but they were there. Chasing him. He couldn't be sure of the exact number, but there had to be at least 100, if not more. Out of that, he probably expected 15 or 20 to be some of those suicidal, pain-tolerant bitches.

Livingston dropped Elaine in the passenger floorboard, and pulled out two of his rare incendiary grenades from his passenger seat. They were large red cylinders, resembling stocky hairspray cans. They had a circular pin and a large silver lever. They were simple, but very effective. Pull the pin, hold the lever, release the lever and throw.

He opened his door. His windows didn't roll down like a normal vehicle's. It took a few seconds of juggling, and he watched the road like a hawk, but he managed to pull out one of the pins. He released the lever and dropped it. It hit against the road, and when the infected reached it, it exploded.

Most of the infected were immediately killed, if not incinerated. However, their bodies were forgotten and trampled over, and the survivors just kept on coming. Even when Livingston dropped the second grenade, killing another twenty or so, the survivors just kept on coming.

Livingston looked at the clock. It was 4:40. It was hard for him to believe, but it had only been seven minutes. The thing was that Livingston was not afraid, not really. He had been surprised at this new development, these infected that felt no pain, but he wasn't afraid. If anything, he enjoyed the challenge. He wondered if this sort of behavior was normal.

Livingston looked in the rear view mirror, but he had put enough distance between him and the infected that he couldn't see them. He knew they were there, however. They were tenacious.

Livingston stopped and turned the car, so that the driver's side was facing the infected. Without a moment's delay, he picked up Elaine, slung her over the shoulder and jumped into the back seat. He opened the roof hatch and manned the machine gun. It was a M2 Machine Gun and it was .50 caliber anti-personnel. He had no doubts as to its effectiveness, he just didn't like using it because the scarcity of ammunition. However, he felt like tonight would suit the fifty-cal just fine.

He turned the gun, and waited. A part of him thought that this was probably extremely stupid, but he couldn't stop himself. He enjoyed this; the hunt and the chase. Killing the infected was the only thing around that was any fun.

They came into his view, most stopping before the circle of light but a few kept charging. With a grim smile on his face, Livingston let loose with the machine gun.

It was as if they had all been hypnotized, all at once, to fall down and go to sleep. The machine gun, shooting at 600 rounds per minute, was killing the infected with the utmost ease. Not even the stronger ones, the ones that could ignore pain, would stand up to the monstrous weapon.

Within a minute, the entire group of infected were dead. The barrel was smoking and hot to the touch. He had ran the gun out of almost of its ammunition, but it was worth it. Livingston uttered a breathe, as the excitement starting to fade away.

He didn't even see the pair of infected until it was too late. They had dodged his bullets by scaling the wall. As he sat himself back down in the HUMVEE, and he reached up to close the hatch, the pair jumped on to the vehicle. It bucked wildly with their weight.

Livingston lost his balance and fell out of the backseat, falling to the floorboard. The first infected, a woman, crawled through the hatch and jumped at him. He stopped her by holding her throat back, but she was within inches of him, snarling and yelling at him. Her elongated canines dripped with drool.

He couldn't reach Elaine. She was behind his back! It was too cramped in the floorboard to maneuver himself. Before he could think about what to do, the second infected crawl through the hatch. He rammed up against the woman, and the combined weight of the infected pushed him deeper into the floor. He screamed in pain and anger as the two combined their efforts to get at him.

"The pistol," said a voice. Livingston had no idea where the voice had come from, but he didn't care. His secondary weapon, the pistol! He reached into the holster on his belt, and pulled out the M1911. Without a moment's hesitation, he shot the woman in the face. She fell over, her brains leaking out onto the upholstery.

He shot at the man, but he moved and the bullet entered his shoulder. He didn't even notice it. This was one of the stronger ones. The infected grabbed Livingston by the throat, and his claws started to cut into the tender skin.

He fired off shot after shot, and finally, a shimmer of pain reflected across the infected's face. However, anger replaced it and Livingston was hurled away, his head impacting against the window. There was a brief flash of pain and blood began to flow freely down his temple.

The infected jumped at him, but he fired off another shot and his head was destroyed just like the woman's. He fell onto the backseat, right on top of the woman's body.

Livingston didn't hesitate, even though his throat screamed with pain and his head felt like it was cracked. He stood up and closed the hatch. He stepped over the bodies and sat back in the front seat, this time placing Elaine in his lap.

"It's alright," he said to his only friend. She was crying because she had been no help to him. Her sarcasm was just a memory. "It's okay."

Livingston pressed down on the gas, and felt the HUMVEE lurch forwards. The clock read 4:49. He started on his way, still determined to find a parking deck and scout out the town.

If anything, his injures made him want to destroy the infected even more. He made a vow at that moment in time. Topeka would be free of infected, even if he had to burn it down to the ground.

End of Chapter 1

* * *

Chapter 2: The First Signs of Life 

Livingston stumbles onto a small group of survivors. The leader wishes to join him, but Livingston wants only revenge for the attack on him the previous night. Livingston discovers that his idea of humanity's perfection is far from true.


	2. Chapter 2: The First Signs of Life

Disclaimer: This story is not my property. In no sense or fashion am I attempting to make a profit from this endeavor. All characters, except the ones that I have created, are property of their respective owners.

Author's Notes: A story about a shell of a man, a man without a past, trying to find a reason for his existence in this new, dangerous world. I hope you enjoy it. And if you're looking for Robert Neville, don't worry. He will be here eventually.

* * *

**THE ADVERSARY**

**Chapter 2: The First Signs of Life

* * *

**

"_Livingston. You are doing well. Continue east, continue killing. Paint your bloody masterpiece, Livingston. Do not worry. As they get stronger, you get stronger." _

Livingston woke up to a gentle rapping on his window. He blinked at the sun. It was staring right at him, high in the sky. He looked at the internal clock. It wasn't even noon. Why was he up? This was wrong. Was he having a dream?

Suddenly, the rapping increased in volume, and Livingston sat up straight. He pointed Elaine at the window, expecting to see an infected with an umbrella and a smile. Instead of that, there was a young girl. Her hand was frozen, her eyes were wide with fear. Not that he would fire in his HUMVEE, but she didn't know that. The first shot would probably ricochet straight backwards into his own skull.

She was young, a little younger than him. Of course, he didn't exactly know his age, but he hazarded a guess that he was somewhere in his 20's. The girl looked like a teenager. What was he like when he was a teenager?

He wondered if she was pretty. He compared her with the lists of pictures in his mind, most garnered from magazines and billboards. Compared to those girls, she wasn't as pretty. This was certainly a strange train of thought. It didn't really matter if she was pretty or not. What was he going to do, repopulate the Earth with her or something?

He felt a ugly slab of pain in his head. He had wrapped gauze around the head wound, bandaged his throat wound, and he took some of the pills in the first aid. However, he made sure to take less than needed, just in case they messed with concentration.

He was on top of a parking deck, just like he had wanted. He had just gotten there when the sunrise made its way past the horizon, illuminating the city and forcing the infected back into hiding. He had wanted to scout the city, but he was too tired. It took all of his energy to dump the two bodies out of his HUMVEE. After he did that, he passed out, completely exhausted. He hadn't even bothered to clean up the backseat.

He looked around the HUMVEE. There were several people. This was amazing. It was also sort of scary. Livingston knew what to expect from infected. They chased you and tried to kill you. And while he had nothing but high hopes for humans, a cynical part of his mind was still wary of them. After all, couldn't they lie? Infected don't lie, animals don't lie, dishonesty is a human invention.

"Elaine, what do you think?" She wanted him to go for it, to take a chance on the humans. They didn't look all that dangerous. There were seven in total, five men and three women, all armed. Still, they looked tired, worn-out, and hungry.

Even with his wounds, Livingston felt strong, full of vitality and life. He didn't know what it was. Maybe the rush of killing over a 100 infected in one night. He wasn't quite sure. Come to think of it, that's how they probably tracked him. Followed the trail of dead bodies.

He opened the door and stepped outside the HUMVEE. The teenage girl backed away. Her eyes were still fearful. Not that he blamed her. He was a scary character, like the insane soldier discussed in the memoirs. Apparently, the author's company had run afoul of an AWOL (whatever that meant) who had been killing indiscriminately. They wanted to kill him, but the author and a few others convinced them to imprison him.

He gripped Elaine in his hands, careful not to raise the gun too high. They looked like they were willing to shoot him if he seemed dangerous. He locked eyes with the girl, and she scooted away next to a large, burly man.

Livingston was subdued. He was looking at his HUMVEE now. There were pieces of infected covering it. It used to be camouflaged, now it was some ugly red color. He walked around it, inspecting it. Other than being dirty, it seemed fine. Aside from the smell, of course. It didn't bother Livingston much, but it was getting to the others. The inside was much worse.

"You're him, aren't you?" asked the burly man. His voice was deep, commanding, but his hands were shaking. The shotgun in his hands shook with them. The man was far bigger than Livingston, but he was deathly afraid of him.

Livingston cocked his head sideways at the man's question. His first human interaction! It was intriguing. "Who?"

A young teenage boy, the youngest in the crowd, walked up to Livingston. He didn't look much older than 16, but he didn't show the same amount of fear as the burly man. In fact, he looked more in awe of Livingston than afraid.

The young teenager opened his mouth, but he seemed to have trouble finding the right words. He closed his mouth, and opened it again. He repeated the process a few times before he was able to form a sentence. Livingston was mildly thankful. He had looked like a fish. Had he ever seen a live fish? Livingston couldn't recall.

"You're the guy who's been destroying the infected, aren't you? We heard about you on CB."

Radio. Ah, yes. The HUMVEE didn't have one. For some reason. Livingston had tried to find one, but he never got lucky enough to find a working one. And then, he felt the need to hunt infected and cross the country. Finding a radio stopped being so important.

Livingston nodded. The group whispered to each other in hushed, hurried voices. They looked worried. Or, at least Livingston thought they looked worried. Maybe this is what other people look like when they are happy. He smiled when he was happy, but he had no idea if this was the accepted means.

The burly man was the first one to speak. "Where are you going?"

"East," he replied truthfully. No way specific, just that direction. "Until I can't go east anymore."

The group looked confused. The teenage boy said "are you going to ground zero?"

Livingston cocked his head. "Where's that?"

The group looked even more confused. Livingston felt a tremor of unease. Had he done something wrong? Had he broken some code of ethics, or had his etiquette been substandard?

"Manhattan," said an old man, who had been standing at the fringe of the group. "How can you not know that?"

Livingston spoke the truth. "I don't remember anything before waking up in a old school bus. Almost three years ago."

Another round of hushed whispers. It did not come to him until later that he could have lied to them. He didn't know how, not really. He didn't even know how to communicate. He was simply answering their questions.

Livingston looked around the parking deck, subconsciously scouting the city while the seven discussed with one another. He was going to get back at those bastards for causing him to bleed. Oh, yes. He would hunt down each and every hive, even if it took burning down the city to draw them out.

They had gotten quiet after their discussion. This sort of quiet bothered Livingston. This was different from the usual quiet, driving through the ruins of civilization with no one but a sarcastic carbine to talk with. This quiet was hiding something, like the quiet night the previous morning, yet different. It wasn't as malevolent, but it was still worrisome, in a more subtle way.

He began to secretly wish for Elaine. Because she was safe, she was secure, she was part of his routine. This people were not. However, she was silent. A part of him was thankful, after all, who needs to talk to an inanimate object when you had people? However, another part missed the comforting voice of his only friend. Even if she was imaginary, a friend is a friend, right?

He didn't know how to act around them. He had been around for only for three years, after all. That wasn't normal, right? Was he normal? He thought so, he supposed so. But there was the problem. He didn't know, for sure, without a shadow a doubt, if he was normal or not, if his behavior was normal or completely loony.

It was maddening. During the entire three years, the only thing he had to go on were the terrified and crazed ramblings of some boy scrawled in a cheap, leather journal. These people had a reference point, they had memories. They might be bad, they might be good, but they were still memories. They were a foundation. He had no such foundation. He was just floating, uneasily, above a dark and dangerous ocean. In that ocean, in that darkness, was death and destruction. But for some reason, as he fought harder and harder to stay afloat, the ocean just kept on looking more and more friendly.

And there was that voice, calling to him. In the HUMVEE. In the dream. Had he heard it before that time in the HUMVEE? He didn't think so, but was he sure? No, he wasn't. He wasn't sure of anything, except that he could kill and he was good at it. And that he could destroy. Oh, yes, he could destroy. He wondered if they had seen what he had done to LA, what he had done to San Diego. Those cities had been damaged, but now they were just a smoldering memory.

If he tried hard, very hard, he thought he could remember hearing the voice before the HUMVEE. He couldn't quite pinpoint the exact time, but he was pretty sure he had heard it. One word, repeated over and over, in different areas at different times, but always the same word with always the same meaning.

"Here."

Livingston looked up in surprise. It was the girl's voice, saying the same word that was on his mind. In her hand, she had a candy bar. He took it, and she smiled. He smiled back in response. That was comforting. You were supposed to smile when you were happy. One less thing to worry about.

The girl walked back and the group deliberated for a few minutes. Finally, the burly man walked away from the others and towards Livingston. He had a defeated look on his face.

"We want you to come with us," he said.

Livingston backed away in surprise. He had not been expecting that. He was touched, in a way. Because that meant they were willing to trust him, at least somewhat. And that meant he appeared somewhat trustworthy. He had often had nightmares about running into people, who were always faceless, and scaring them off or causing them to attack him.

"We could use your vehicle. And your weapons. And your experience with the infected," the man continued. "We are going east as well. There's nothing to the west but smoldering ruins. California is pretty much destroyed."

Livingston did not know why he bit his tongue, stopping himself from remarking that he was the reason that California was probably still on fire. There was just something, a part of him or perhaps something else, that felt it wasn't wise to divulge the extents of his measures to kill the infected.

"I'm not leaving yet," Livingston said. The others backed away at this.

"Are you nuts? You can't stay here," said the old man. "This city was one of the first concentrated breakouts. There's thousands here."

That was good to know. "I'm not leaving until I get some payback for what they did to me." He pointed at his various wounds.

"You can't win," said one of the women. It was the middle aged one. The others nodded their head at this. The teenage boy seemed torn.

Livingston smiled at that. He considered it a challenge. He would win, oh yes, he would win. He still had most of his explosives from Wichita. He didn't even have to make any. He would find the hives, and destroy them using his familiar technique. Hotwire a car, fill it up with explosives, and drive it into the complex. It would explode, and the sun would kill the survivors. If any survived that, he would gun them down.

He realized that he probably used too much in California, but there had been so much artillery just lying around. It felt criminal not to use it. He had loaded up a dozen different vehicles with his homemade bomb, and put several shells and warheads to top it off. There had been some monumental explosions. And he still kept his trump card. The special one in the lead trunk. The one he found, practically gift-wrapped. The one far more special than the C4.

"I will win," he said and there was not a shred of doubt in his voice.

The burly man walked up to him. His defeated look was gone, replaced with a look of pure anger. Livingston backed away, but not out of fear. It was more out of surprise. That was what people looked like angry.

"Listen here," the burly man said. "Either you come with us, or we will take your equipment. It's insane for you to waste all that just because you want to kill a few infected. Because of what? They hurt you? Well, my entire fucking family was killed. Everyone's family was killed. And you want us just to pass up all those weapons and go on our merry way with our cheap guns?"

A few of the group cheered. The old man and the middle aged woman were the loud ones. The other were quiet, but no less enthusiastic. They weren't exactly pointing their weapons at him, but they would soon enough. Only the teenagers seemed immune to the hysteria. The sun was directly above the group now. Not even their shadows wanted to see this.

Livingston had no idea what he was supposed to do. He had no idea of negotiation. He had never done it, or he could never remember doing it. Compromises was something alien to him. He had become accustomed to doing whatever he wanted and killing infected whenever he got bored. Just the idea of running from the city turned his stomach.

The teenage girl stepped up. Her voice was small, but it seemed to carry very well. "Let's leave, and stay on the highway, and we'll wait. Is that okay?"

The burly man looked her like he wanted to hit her for a brief moment, but he relaxed. He did not want any bloodshed, plus he was afraid of this soldier. He was bloodied, from his own and the infected, but there was just something about his eyes. Something strong, something sinister. Plus, he seemed to be in extremely good health and was carrying a weapon far better than their measly supermarket rifles and cheap pistols.

The burly man sighed. "All right. We will stay on Highway 70, outside and east of the city. For one day. When daylight comes, we will start a fire."

He walked up to Livingston. He tried to look intimidating, but he was just too tired. He felt a great deal of envy towards this young soldier. He seemed so healthy, so driven. He was just tired of being a leader. Just because he had been a cop before the infection, people had assumed him to be the leader. And before he could realize it, he was the leader.

"What's your name?" he asked the soldier.

Livingston looked up at the burly man. "Livingston."

He nodded. "I'm Randall." He pointed at the two teenagers. "The boy's Chris and the girl's Ashley."

"The old man is Derek," said Randall. He pointed to the middle aged woman next. "This is Alicia."

He pointed to the two quiet ones. They were holding each other's hands, but their eyes seem muted, dull. "And those two are Dennis and Leigh."

"They lost their son five days ago," he whispered to Livingston. The young soldier nodded. He didn't feel an ounce of sympathy, never having lost anything in his life, but he figured he was supposed to do something.

"Remember," said Randall. "One day." He held up a single finger to empathize his point. The group started to walk towards their own vehicles. One was a old, beaten SUV. Ford Explorer. It, in its own right, was probably a tough vehicle, but compared to the HUMVEE, it just looked pathetic.

The other was an old Camaro, just as worn out as the SUV. It still looked fast, though. Randall climbed into it, as did Alicia and Ashley. Derek, Dennis, and Leigh climbed into the SUV. The old man was driving.

Chris was standing next to Livingston. He hadn't moved an inch. He kept glancing at Livingston, but he was too skittish to keep eye contact. Was he afraid of me? Livingston wondered. Randall yelled at the boy to get into the car, but the boy shook his head.

"I'm staying with him," he said. "I want to help him out."

Randall stepped outside of the car, a petulant look on his face. Tired being leader as he was, he still expected his orders to be followed. He looked at Livingston, who simply shrugged. He didn't really care whether or not the boy tagged along. He didn't think he would get in his way, plus it was interesting to see how other people dealt with the infected.

He had to hurry, though. One day, just one day, to hunt down all the infected in the city? Usually, it took him around a week. But, he wasn't too worried. For some reason, he felt confident that he could do it.

Randall grabbed the teenage boy by the shoulder, but he was gentle, soothing, and, of course, subtle. He was trying to convince the boy by other means, because he probably realized yelling would do no good. Livingston shivered at the man's underhandedness. This was the human race? A bunch of insecure liars.

Livingston could not help but compare them to the bloodthirsty infected. And while they were undoubtedly more civilized, maybe that was worse. After all, in their own way, the infected were pure, free of emotions and feelings. The humans, on other hand, could still try to kill you, but they could do with a smile, masking their true intentions.

He shook his head. He had just met this people, and they were under a great deal of strain. Their lives were ruined. Each day was full of fear and unease, wondering if they would survive to see another sunrise. No, he would not judge them for them. Not yet.

"Chris," said Randall. His voice was controlled, but the look in his eyes was anything but. "You can't stay here. It's dangerous. Extremely dangerous."

Chris tore away from Randall. "Like it isn't anymore dangerous than staying on the road? Weren't we just attacked five days ago? They lost their son, Jesus Christ! He was my friend!"

The boy was crying now, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. Livingston was stunned silent. This was something new.

"How many more people are we going to lose, Randy? You tell me. Will we even make it to the East Coast? Will there even be anything for us when we get there? All we do is run, run, run. I'm sick of it. I just am. I can't take it anymore. Living without hope, hiding like rats. I want to fight. And if I die, I'd much rather die fighting than huddling in some hole in fear."

Randall backed away. He looked surprise, and than, defeated. He knew it was pointless to argue. He wasn't the kid's father. He had only met him five months ago. He had no right to order him around, not really.

"All right," said Randall. He sighed. "Stay safe, Chris. Good luck. Livingston, good luck to you too."

He held up a hand and covered his eyes. He didn't know why he was trying to hide his tears, but maybe it was because he had to appear strong for the others. Randall was a broken man, but he had to appear strong for them. They counted on him, and he would not let them down, even if cost him his own life. That was the burden of leadership.

He ambled back to the car and sat back into the driver's seat. The SUV drove away first, going down the circular ramp to the lower floor of the parking deck. The Camaro followed, and Livingston caught Ashley's eyes as she stared outside the window. She was waving at them. Chris was crying still, but he seemed moved by Ashley's small gesture. Livingston wondered why.

Soon, the sounds of the engines faded into nothingness. Now, there was only Chris and Livingston. The teenager looked up at the taller man, and wiped his eyes clean.

"I convinced him. I don't believe it," he said with no small amount of astonishment.

Livingston peered down at the boy. Elaine was resting on his shoulder, whispering into his ear. She didn't trust the humans, not at all. However, she had always been judgmental. Hadn't she? A faded image, perhaps a memory, popped into his head. A woman dressed in stark white, holding a clipboard, and trying to delve into the inner workings of his mind. He had no idea who the woman was, but the memory did not seem pleasant. He could remember a feeling of restraint and absolute anger.

"Well," Livingston spoke. He had to get his mind off the blurry memory or he might just lose his mind. "The tears helped."

Chris laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "Yeah. And I guess those years on the debate team finally paid off, huh?"

Debate team? What was that? Livingston decided it wasn't very important at the moment. He looked at the sun. It was probably close to 1:00 PM. It was the middle of summer, so they still had plenty of time. However, it was best to work fast.

Livingston turned back and started walking towards the dirty HUMVEE. He stopped a few seconds after, because Chris was standing still. He was just staring at Livingston. He felt confused. Was he supposed to do something?

"Uh," mumbled Livingston. "Come on?"

Chris nodded and ran towards the front passenger's door. Apparently, Livingston had said the right words. Still, he was confused. Interaction was a new concept to him.

"Elaine?" asked Livingston. "What have I gotten myself into?"

She didn't reply. But he had the strange feeling she was unnerved. Why? Simple. Because she didn't like strangers, or the potential effect on Livingston. Or was that him that didn't like strangers, just projecting his feelings onto Elaine? He wasn't sure. His mind hurt with the possibilities.

He walked to the HUMVEE and opened the front driver's door. He stepped inside and put Elaine in his lap.

"Now what?" asked Chris.

Livingston smiled. True, he was far outside of his element when it came to interaction. But, when it came to killing infected, he was very good at his job. This boy would see that firsthand.

"Operation Adversary," replied Livingston. The name had just come to him out of the dark, empty part of his mind. The part blocked and walled away by his amnesia. The part that he had long since stopped missing. He wasn't much of a human, not anymore. He was just a living, breathing weapon against the infected. His head wound was still throbbing. Anger surged through him. Oh yes, he was a weapon, he was something to be feared. The city will burn, and every infected will burn with it.

End of Chapter 2

* * *

Chapter 3: Burn

Livingston readies for the night. The bombs are armed, the hives are found. The city of Topeka is about to become a fiery wasteland. Hell on Earth.


End file.
